


This Reality Without You

by Sethrine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mentions of The Reichenbach Fall, Minor Character(s), Post Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sethrine/pseuds/Sethrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't belong here, John."</p>
<p>John turned, eyes staring at the lone, dark figure standing out even in the shadows of his too-white room. He stared at the tall man for the longest time, almost awed by the way he held himself.</p>
<p>"Neither do you."</p>
<p>For the life of him, John couldn't remember the man's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea from a while back that hasn't seen the light of day yet. I figured it was time to let it free, otherwise it'll fester in my computer forever.
> 
> I'm so sorry for anything that seems out of place. This fic has not been beta'd or brit-picked, so any mistakes are my own. Though I'd be happy if someone were willing to brit-pick for this piece.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

"You shouldn't be here." 

John looked around the immaculately kept room with tired eyes. The bare necessities were there: a bed, a desk, a chair, one battery-powered lamp, a decently sized dresser with four drawers, and a large clock on the wall with the numbers in Roman Numerals. Everything was monochromatic, dull, boring, white...so very _white_. Even the carpet beneath his feet was pristine; his darker clothing choice stood out heavily against the blinding color. 

He was every bit out of place. 

"'Course I should," he replied with finality, mind set on his new living quarters. He would have to get used to the bleakness of his surroundings. It was his new home, after all, at least until he could get himself sorted. 

He placed his bag full of clothes on the floor and made to sit on the bed, white sheets and blanket tightly pulled over the semi-plush surface now wrinkling around his weight. It reminded him briefly of his time in the army, this room. It was so uniform, so simple. Despite the color, he found it fitting. Back to basics, as it were. 

"It's necessary," he told himself, glancing at the only window in the room, barred from the outside with thick, crisscrossing iron bars. It was protection, not from the outside world, but protection from himself. It wasn't needed for his particular case of "illness," but it was procedure for every room. He only wanted to get better. 

John was suddenly aware of the tall man standing just to the left of the window, his dark coat just as outlandish against the white walls as John's own clothing choice was. John took note of his presence but did not directly look at him. Looking at this man only made his condition worse, made him seem more unstable than he really was. He had yet to pass beyond the point of sanity, despite what others said. He'd like to keep it that way; it was the whole reason why he was here in the first place, to make sure he _didn't_ pass that very thin line. 

"I have to get better, Sherlock. This isn't normal, you know. I've let it go on for too long, now. I can't-" 

John paused, feeling his throat tighten and his eyes prickle. He had willed himself for far too long not to buckle under the weight of his own madness, and he'd be damned if he'd do it now. He composed himself quickly, his face fixing itself into the usual indifferent visage he had grown accustomed to during the war. 

Calm. 

Collected. 

Unnaturally stone-faced and ready to face the world for what it was and not what it continuously proclaimed to be. 

"I can't let this keep running my life. It's not...it's not _healthy_. I have to move on, you understand?" 

No answer was given. John didn't expect one. In all honesty, he shouldn't really have been talking aloud at all. He wouldn't have been there if he wasn't. 

His mind simply couldn't comprehend that no one was really there. 

"You don't belong here, John." 

John's lips gave an odd quirk, a lilt of a smile, but only just. 

"Neither do you, Sherlock."


	2. Day 5

Life at the institute was simple, basic. John stuck to a set schedule, just as he was told to. He had a few more privileges than some of the more...inept patients there, such as unrestricted though usually supervised visits to the library and a few other recreational places. He was monitored at a distance, and no aid was needed to take him to and from these places so long as he alerted his assigned nurse of his intentions. Unlike the others, he still had his wits about him. He could manage on his own. 

He'd wake up at roughly seven thirty in the morning, take about half an hour to get showered and dressed and ready for the day, then immediately head to the dining hall for breakfast. After breakfast, he was given a single white pill, one of only two of his medications he was required to take during his stay, before heading out to the large park-like area that happened to be the center of the facility. Here, he walked around the concrete path until lunchtime. 

There were several recreations he could take part in throughout the day after lunch. He tended to stay away from anything group therapy related and spent most of his time in the library, as he was encouraged to do, until the call for dinner. 

After dinner, he was required to take his second pill, one that was an interesting swirl of red and blue pellets encased in a clear sleeve. Even with all his medical expertise, John hadn't a clue what sort of medication was used in the combination. Apparently, it was still in its experimental stage, so much so that he was the only one in the institute taking it. His case was perfect, they had said, to test the drug's effects on the mind. 

"I don't much care for the medication they insist upon forcing into you," the tall man stated, his grey-blue eyes narrowed and calculating. John made the mistake of looking up into those very eyes. His heart gave a violent twist as his gaze roamed over the familiar features of pale skin, high cheekbones, and dark, curly hair; it was by sheer will he was able to look away and back down at the book he now held in his hands. 

"It's necessary," he stated quietly, barely above a whisper. He did so partly because he was still in the library area where quiet was absolute. He did so, also, because he didn't want to be heard talking to himself again. The last nurse didn't much like it; he was sure his therapist wouldn't be too happy with the information, either. 

"It'll help me get better, I'm sure. It _is_ experimental, but I believe it'll work. It _has_ to work." 

"It's not working; those idiots are hardly capable of handling themselves, let alone the medications they swear upon you." 

John was hardly surprised at the man's attitude. 

"You know as well as I do that it can take some medications several weeks to start affecting the body. It depends on the interaction between patient and drug. Give it time; it'll work." 

What John didn't tell the man was that the drugs _were_ kicking in. He could feel it, the tingling in the back of his skull that alerted him something was happening, something was shifting and changing inside his very mind. It was barely there, but it was present, nonetheless. More time was needed. He gave it another two weeks or so before the medication completely took over his system. 

A grandfather clock somewhere within the library began chiming off, echoing across the massive expanse of the room. Ten o'clock, it chimed. It was about time for bed. 

"You don't belong here, John." 

John sighed, though his lips twitched upward ever so slightly. 

"Neither do you, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those who have read as well as left kudos! Your support makes me feel that I'm doing these characters decent justice.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. See ya around for the next installment!


	3. Day 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late update! Found me a job and literally worked eight days straight before my first day off. Now that my schedule is on track, I'll be able to update on a regular basis.
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking around. Again, this is not brit-picked, so forgive me for any glaring mistakes I've made. Enjoy!

"How've you been, John?" 

John looked away from his strangely darker than normal surroundings to the woman sitting across from him. She was a pretty thing, her long brown hair in a high pony tail and her dark eyes framed in glasses that sat against her delicate nose. There was a time he'd have chatted her up, perhaps have taken her out to see a show or just a walk around the city with the promise of dinner later on. It was almost comical how the years had changed him. 

"Good, good. Great, even," he answered, hands clenching and unclenching against the plush armrests of his chair. He took in a breath, let it out slowly. There was no reason to be nervous in front of his therapist. 

"That's fantastic to hear," she said, a smile curving at her pink glossed lips. He wasn't sure of she was being completely genuine with that smile. "And how have you been taking to life here?" 

"I've, um...it's not so bad, really. I read a lot in the evenings; keeps my mind busy, I suppose." 

"That's good! I'm glad to know you've taken up reading like I suggested. What sorts of books have been keeping your interest?" 

"I haven't really...well, anything medically inclined usually grabs my attention for a while." 

"John," his therapist called in an almost disappointed tone, and John was taken back momentarily to a time where he was still young and being chastised by his mum for tracking mud into the house. "You really ought to try different genres, not just medical issues. It'll help the cognitive part of your brain retain needed information rather than what your medication is trying to get rid of. We want to erase only one thing, not your whole life." 

She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs, glancing down at her clipboard for a long moment. She became a bit more serious, a bit more interested. 

"Your nightly entries say that you still talk to him, that he still talks to you. How often does this happen?" 

"Not as often as before," John answered honestly, though he paused after his stomach gave an awkward flip at the revelation. "He's not always there. He comes less often and disappears quicker." 

"And what about now, John? Is he here now?" 

John glanced around himself at the too dark room and gave a negative shake of his head. His therapist seemed pleased. 

"Good." 

He chatted for another fifteen minutes, the conversation ending with promises of more nightly reading of different genres and continuing his nightly entries and an almost heartfelt, "You're getting better, John." Once again, his stomach gave a strange, nervous flip. 

"I don't much like her," the tall man stated rather suddenly as he met John in the hallway, prompting a sigh from the ex-army doctor. 

"If I recall correctly, you don't much like many of the women I come in contact with." 

"She's sleeping with one of the other doctors; it's completely obvious, and quite unprofessional. And still, she claims to be the best. Hardly." 

John gave a light chuckle and a genuine smile, one that had not seen the light of day in a while, at the scowling words. They were familiar, comforting, so much so that it was hard to believe he wasn't supposed to be hearing them at all. 

"It's necessary, you know," he said aloud, though if he caught the other's attention, the tall man gave no inclination. "She knows what's right for me. She's a professional, after all." 

"You could do better." 

John gave a sad smile. 

"If I could do better, I wouldn't need to be here. You know that." 

It was silent the rest of the way back to John's room where he stopped only a moment to get his coat -he was a bit chilly, for some reason- before heading to the library. The whole time, the tall man followed, a mere shadow of John's conscience. 

"You don't belong here, John." 

John hesitated a moment, the words hazy and sluggish as he took a moment too long to respond. 

"Neither do you...Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, the response I've gotten for this fic is astounding! Thank you for such lovely comments, and thank you for reading!
> 
> See ya around for the next chapter!


	4. Day 13

John had the whole day to himself, just as he always did. He found that he prefered to spend this time in the library, just as he always did. Dinner was upon him sooner than he anticipated, and after his medication and another three hours in the library, he once again found himself in his bright, pristinely white room at his simple wooden desk with a pen and a few pieces of paper before him. Just as he always did. 

"These notes are incredibly repetitive. There's no use for them." 

The voice surprised John. At the same time, hearing that deep baritone voice was more comforting than he would like to let on. He glanced over towards the barred window to find the tall man standing there as he always was when in John's room. 

"It's necessary," John answered simply, setting pen to paper as he wrote about his day, just as he did every night since coming to the institute. It was a good way for his therapist to keep tabs on his progress, so long as he remained honest. He was always honest. From what he could tell, she was rather pleased with the results so far. 

"They help track my progress, these notes. Surely you understand that?" 

"There hasn't been any progress; they're useless," the man said, his tone snide, though not directed at John. Still, John frowned. 

"Surely, there has, I just can't see it." 

John thought about what he'd said a moment, saying it out loud once more to clarify his own words in his mind. 

"I can't _see_ it." 

For the next thirty minutes, John wrote in silence. It was almost as nice as going to the library. It was familiar, routine. It was a place where his thoughts could be recorded within the happenings of his day. It was who he was, or what he had become, even before the institute. In the morning, he would hand in the paper to one of the caretakers who overlooked him where it would be documented for his therapist to see.

It was progress, through and through. 

"You don't belong here, John." 

John turned once more in his seat, ice blue eyes staring at the lone, dark figure standing out even in the shadows of his too-white room. He stared at the man for a long time, almost awed by his visage and the mysterious way he held himself. 

"Neither do you." 

For the life of him, John couldn't remember the man's name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely horrible about updating on a set time every week. I get so excited to get the next part out; I just can't help myself!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos, and thank you again for reading!
> 
> See ya around for the next chapter!


	5. Day 19

John began to notice odd things that he hadn't noticed before. For one, there seemed to be less and less people walking the hallways and shouting at others or inanimate objects as there used to be. He recalled one man who visited the sitting room constantly and would shout at the blank telly as if watching a movie. It took John three days of passing by the sitting room on his way to the cafeteria to realize that the man had all but disappeared, leaving the area all too quiet for John's liking. 

In contrast, there seemed to be a generally larger amount of doctors around, and he couldn't help but wonder why, especially since there was an increasing lack of patients to level the field. 

There was also the matter of his room. Had the carpet really been such a dull shade of grey this whole time? Surely he wouldn't have missed that, especially with how precise everything in his room was. Clean, white, immaculate. He'd have to ask one of the personnel about it, maybe even his therapist. 

He was also increasingly aware of a tall man following him around from time to time. John only ever saw fleeting glances of the man as he walked into another room or rounded a corner, but it was enough to make his heart jump and suspicion come to mind. 

"You're so quiet, so still." 

John started suddenly, eyes cutting to the side at the deep voice sounding in his room. His focus had been on the carpet before; he hadn't even realized that he had not moved for a good half hour or so. 

The tall man that had been following him around was now standing at the window, and he was...familiar. Strangely so, in fact, yet John couldn't remember why. He'd seen the man around somewhere, besides the brief glimpses of him throughout the institute, he was sure of it. His state of dress, that unruly dark mass of hair, those cutting blue-grey eyes, all of it struck something within John and made his heart give a strange, welcoming flutter that balanced dangerously on the line between delight and heart-wrenching despair. 

"Right then, I'm sorry," he apologized, finding that his words, though genuine, didn't quite fit with the situation. He was a bit too flustered, too preoccupied with wondering exactly how the tall man had found his way into John's room and why exactly he was at the window, of all places. 

He was by no means afraid of the tall man, not in the least. John was genuinely curious of him. 

So mysterious. 

So peculiar. 

So...unobtainable. 

"You shouldn't be here, John," the tall man said, his voice just above a whisper. For an instant, John thought that was all to be said, but the tall man continued after a moment's pause. "You should be back at the flat, writing those unnecessarily over-exaggerated stories of our cases with those idiotic titles you come up with, or berating me, as you seem to enjoy doing. Silly, mundane, _necessary_...just like you." 

John had once thought about it, going back home, wherever home was. He recalled his interest in blogging, something he had taken up after coming home from the service much earlier than he intended. 

His therapist, however, thought he was making such progress where he was now, doing so well in the institute. At the moment, there was no reason for John to leave. John was content with his routine here. Surely the tall man could see that? 

"You don't belong here, John." 

John felt his gut tighten at the words, felt his heart practically jump and the nerves in his hands twitch, though he had no idea why. 

"Don't I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the kudos and the lovely comments! Warms my heart something fierce to know you all enjoy this so much (even if it is a bit on the angsty side).
> 
> As always, see ya around for the next chapter!


End file.
